


An Omen

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humor, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Some angels shouldn't be allowed to watch television, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), canon-typical relationship ambiguity, confusing jumble of names, pre-romance at most
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Brother Francis bangs on Nanny Ashtoreth's door very late one night, concerned about her new orders from Hell.(Or: some angels shouldn't be allowed near televisions)





	An Omen

**Author's Note:**

> This silly little thing sprung to mind along with the other Nanny/Francis fic I wrote. I suppose this could be in the same universe, really, just earlier.
> 
> Anyway, it's not deep or clever but I hope you enjoy it. Apologies for any mistakes, it's late and I'm just quickly posting before bed.
> 
> Oh - and minor spoilers for The Omen if you've somehow managed to avoid those thus far.

Nanny Ashtoreth knows nothing of the trouble that’s about to hit the Dowling household until she hears the hammering on her bedroom door late one night.

It’s the night before Warlock’s fifth birthday, as it happens, and Ashtoreth is already staring down the barrel of a very long day. The very last thing she wants is a late night, let alone to be roused from her slumber at… twenty-five to midnight, by some impatient fool trying to knock down her door.

“This house had better be on fi- Brother Francis?” Because it _ is _Brother Francis at the door, and that means that something far more urgent than a fire might be afoot. “You’d better come in before somebody sees you.”

The Dowlings can be a little old-fashioned about gentlemen visiting the women’s rooms at night, and she doesn’t want to cause any trouble. There’s a turnup for the books, she thinks wryly, before Aziraphale steps across the threshold and her bedside lamp casts the barest hint of light across his pale, drawn face and wide eyes.

“Aziraphale,” she whispers as soon as the door closes behind him. “What is it? Heaven? Hell? What’s happened?”

“Crowley, you mustn’t- you can’t- if there’s more to this insistence on playing nanny, you have to tell me right away-”

“More to- can’t what- _ angel,_ you’re not making any sense.”

“I saw- Mrs Dowling had the television on in the kitchen. It was an old film, I think, a repeat- I didn’t ask the name- you said you sometimes get orders through the television?”

Crowley nods, suddenly more afraid than she's ever been. “Did- nobody saw you?”

“No, I don’t think- nobody was looking at the camera, it- Crowley, you have to leave.”

“Leave?" There's no question of that, if Hell hasn't caught on to their arrangement. "Angel, I can’t. What orders?”

“The nanny, she- she jumped out of a window, dear, at the birthday party- his, the Antichrist’s birthday party, he was five-”

“I don’t understand.”

He's almost frantic, now. She's never seen Aziraphale so fraught - not in centuries, at any rate. “She died, Crowley, for the Antichrist. For his powers. She- you can’t, you _ mustn’t- _”

“I assure you, I have no plans to jump out of any windows…” Those orders sounded familiar, somehow, but Crowley couldn’t think where she’d know them from. There had never _ been _an Antichrist before, and she’d certainly been told to do no such thing. “They didn’t speak directly to you?”

“They didn’t see me.”

“They’d have been looking for me, they- angel, I don’t think those were orders.”

“A warning then, come on, get dressed, there’s no time to lose-” Aziraphale seemed to realise, at that moment, that Crowley was wearing Nanny Ashtoreth’s nightgown, and he turned quite pink. “I _ am _ sorry for waking you. But you have to leave.”

“Angel, it’s not a warning. Warlock is five years old, and he’s shown no sign of any powers whatsoever. Do you really think he could push me out of a window if I didn’t want to go? And I don’t, by the way. Really, no plans for window-jumping.”

“The poor woman didn’t even have any control- she just said _ it’s all for you _, and she jumped-”

“_Aziraphale_.” The sudden bite in his voice snaps the angel out of his panic, wide angelic eyes settling on the demon. “Did she also say _ Damien _?”

“Yes! Yes, that was the child’s name in the-”

“She was watching _ The Omen, _ you saw a bit of _ The Omen. _”

“An omen, yes- you have to get away-” He's still not getting it; he's still so frightened, and it helps to keep the relieved laughter that threatens to bubble up from inside her contained.

“Angel, _ The Omen _ is a work of fiction. That’s just how it goes, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s- it’s not?”

Aziraphale is peering at her suspiciously from beneath his bushy eyebrows, and Crowley sighs. He’s clearly not going to believe her until the dreaded birthday - with its attendant party - is over.

“I promise you. I’m going nowhere, _ including _out of any windows. And I’m not expecting any particular orders any time soon, but I promise to keep you informed.”

“If- if I see-” Aziraphale still doesn’t seem convinced. “If I see you near a window tomorrow, I’m thwarting you.”

“Please do,” Crowley tells him with a shudder, “I’d be much obliged. Really, angel. No plans to go _ anywhere.” _It’s only then that it occurs to her that, having been so frightened for her, Aziraphale might not want to go anywhere either. “You can stay if you like. For tonight. See for yourself that I’m not making plans behind your back.”

“Oh. Oh, I shouldn’t-”

“Harder to sneak you back out now, to be honest.” That’s a lie, and they both know it. “You can slip out in the morning.”

“Well.” Aziraphale is fidgeting anxiously, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “If it’s easier.”

“It is. Now, I’ve got a very long day full of sugar-crazed children ahead of me tomorr- _ today _\- so if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep.”

She forces herself to act casual as she climbs back into bed. Aziraphale, she sees from the corner of her eye, seems to be looking for a chair, but her room is plain and minimally furnished; she’s never needed a chair there, so she doesn’t have one. There’s nowhere to rest except the bed, so when Crowley’s settled under the covers she decides to push her luck. She pats the mattress beside her invitingly.

“I don’t bite, angel. At least, not while I’m asleep.”

“Oh. Well, er- yes- I suppose- yes.” Aziraphale perches daintily on the very edge of the mattress, bolt upright, and closes his eyes. Crowley can only assume he’s praying, or more likely reciting poetry in his head to keep himself occupied and calm.

“Night, angel.”

“Night.”

* * *

Warlock’s birthday goes without a hitch; Nanny Ashtoreth stays away from the windows during the brief moments she’s able to escape into the house, and she feels Brother Francis’ eyes on her all afternoon as she supervises the picnic. There’s one scary moment, when Warlock goes to give one of his friends half of his slice of cake.

“No, don’t worry, lamb, she’ll get her own in a moment. That’s all for you.”

When she looks up, cursing herself for the slip of the tongue, Francis is right at her side, cutting the little girl in question a piece of cake. It’s probably too much for a five-year-old, but Ashtoreth doesn’t complain. She doesn’t complain when Francis brushes her elbow as he leans past to hand over the cake, either.

They’re still pottering about the garden together, picking up discarded socks and setting the flowerbeds to rights, when the clock ticks past midnight. All of a sudden, Ashtoreth is aware of a stillness, a heavy silence settling over the occult and ethereal entities in the moonlight. She turns to find Brother Francis standing close, closer than he had been before, eyes shining.

“You’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” she assures him, as if she’d ever had any doubts - and then Francis’ whiskers are brushing her cheek, followed by Aziraphale’s lips. She doesn’t remember the last time he’d kissed her - it was the standard greeting between humans, at some point, but only between friends, and Aziraphale has been trying to keep a respectable distance between them for centuries, now.

Then, before she can even begin to process the feeling of his lips on her skin, they’re gone. Brother Francis smiles at her from - once more - a respectable distance, a goofy sort of smile on his face.

“Well, I’m glad of that, Miss Ashtoreth,” he says, and ambles off to his bed, leaving her with questions that won’t be answered any time soon.

She resists the urge to pay him back by standing in an upstairs window on the way to her own, but it’s a hard-fought battle.


End file.
